He was two years older. We were in various orchestras together as kids, and we hung out during summers. We dated in high school. He liked aggressive sex. Through his agency I learned that I was a submissive. At fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, I had not internalized the dimensions of my submission or my appetite for kink. But I took my tentative first steps with him.
He went to college in New Hampshire. As his semester started a few weeks before I headed out to Chicago, I followed him up in my car. It was Labor Day.
Principally because of perpendicular politics, we bickered constantly. More than a decade later, I no longer recall the genesis of our fight, but by the time we had transferred boxes from our cars to his apartment in the unremitting heat and humidity of the late afternoon, I remember inhabiting a state of all consuming fury.
We arrived at the apartment before his roommate. I made his bed while he made a beer and grocery run. In his absence, I resolved to make peace. When he returned, we sat on the mattress, clinked bottles, and drank Sam Adams. He kissed me. His hand reached inside my t-shirt, slipped beneath the bra, and cupped my breasts. I squeezed the erection that tented his shorts.